Page 48

CYRUS

When Ekko’s flight has evened out, Cyrus takes Mezor’s bow off his back and draws a white arrow from the quiver. He raises the bow to his shoulder, turning his waist the way Mezor taught him. The arrow goes where you will it , Mezor told him.

Well, I know where to will it this time.

Ahead of them is nothing but velvety black. Cyrus holds his breath and lets the arrow fly. It leaps from his bow in streak of white. Unbalanced, he nearly topples from Ekko’s back.

He grabs Ekko’s feathers tightly. “Follow the arrow!” he says over the chill wind rushing past his ears.

Ekko’s powerful wings drive them on. Cyrus keeps his gaze fixed on the arrow until his eyes water and his face goes numb from the cold, determined not to let it out of his sight. The pit falls away beneath them, and soon the shale is overtaken by the dark, tangled forest of the wilds. Flashes of light catch Cyrus’s eye below—a golden network of roots, with glimmers of new life springing up along the lines. Life that comes from Mezor’s sacrifice. A transformation overtakes Mezor’s home.

But Mezor has become his home. He’s not willing to sacrifice his mate, even for the good of all the realm.

The ground is eaten up by the powerful sweep of Ekko’s wings. His heartbeat syncs to their rhythm, slow and steady. Ekko follows the arrow, untiring, even as Cyrus struggles to stay awake. The sky gradually lightens, and soon a bright thread unrolls across the horizon—dawn breaking over the sea. The arrow is reduced to a glint against silvery streaks of cloud.

A nearer light rises from the forest. Cyrus grips Ekko’s feathers and straightens, straining to see. The world tree emerges from the treeline before them, reaching for the sky. Its golden crown unfurls rapidly, until it blooms to fill his vision. It’s broad and beautiful, almost a forest unto itself. Cyrus glimpses veins of bark and leaves lined like palms and tight-curled buds, all in eye-watering detail, before Ekko dives suddenly and it’s rendered into a blur of light. He clings to Ekko’s back.

The surrounding trees beckon with bare black fingers. Ekko evades them with ease, shooting toward the bare ground of the clearing. Too fast. He banks at the last second, sending Cyrus flying from his back. Cyrus rolls horns over heels through the grass with a yelp, landing flat on his back, pulse pounding. Ekko lands in the world tree silently.

He gets to his feet slowly, still half dazed by the madness of what he just did.

And what I’m about to do .

The grass itself glows beneath his feet, lighting up in welcome wherever he steps. Above, the world tree’s branches form a shelter over the clearing and the pond. His white arrow is embedded point-first in the huge stone that lurks in middle of the pond.

Cyrus makes his way to the water’s edge. The pool is clear, dark, and still. Flowers still bloom at the shoreline. It looks unchanged since Mezor brought him here. Except this time, all along the shoreline the spiderweb of glowing roots is thicker and brighter, and they stretch farther into the water.

He crouches and dips his hand in. The water is cool.

Silence meets him. For a moment, doubt rises. Did I imagine the voice?

He shakes himself. Someone spoke to him when he was last here, and in his heart he knows it was Mezor’s brother.

Cyrus strips off the bow, his boots, and his clothes, and wades into the water. The roots sting his feet at first, but the cold water soothes the sting, then numbs it. He pushes the flowers aside gently and they float free, leaving the way clear, and dives.

The murky depths rise up to meet him. He’s a strong swimmer. In no time, he reaches the rocky island.

Kalad. The stone is smooth and warm to the touch. A shiver runs through him as he strokes the grey green surface. How many times has Mezor swum out here to do this?

“Please,” Cyrus whispers.

Please. You have to help me.

He goes under.

Below the surface the water is dark with silt and runoff from the dying forest. The occasional glimmer of light from the depths call to him. He swims down, down, following the curve of the stone. Its surface seems to vibrate under his hand. The pond is deeper than it looks, and soon his lungs burn. He feels for a crack in the stone shell, looking for an opening, a sign of life. Anything. But all he sees are gold filaments all through the water. He bats them away, frustrated. Surfacing, he gulps air before diving once more.

His fingers trace the stone all the way around. When his hand sinks wrist-deep into the silt, he recoils. He’s hit the bottom.

Again, he surfaces to breathe and dives. And again. But each dive tells him the same thing. Kalad’s tomb appears impenetrable.

Dragging himself up the rock, he slumps next to the arrow. It’s sunken into the stone, a full handspan of the shaft swallowed up. There’s no crack or chip from the force of its entrance. He grips the shaft and tries to yank it free, but it’s unmoving.

Paranoid, he reaches for the bond again. It’s still there—but fainter than before. A whisper. How long does he have before it fades altogether? How long before the King finishes his dark work and snuffs out Mezor’s life—permanently?

Anger at the injustice stirs in his gut. Why should the rest of Mezor’s kin hide from the destruction of their realm while his mate sacrifices his body and soul? Doesn’t Mezor deserve peace?

He sits up.

“ Wake , damn you!” He slams his fist into the rock. “I know you’re in there. Wake up! The universe brought us together so I could help him! I won’t be stopped by a chunk of rock. You owe him—you all owe him.”

But all he gets is a throbbing hand.

He falls back with a groan, covering his face. Maybe what he feared all along is true—that he’s just a weak soul, whose power in this universe amounts to nothing.

Maybe Mezor was wrong about him.

As he stares up at the shimmering leaves of the world tree, the rock under his back shudders.

Then it gives a thunderous crack.

Shouting, Cyrus tumbles off the boulder into the water. Snapping ricochets over the pond. He gapes as a vast, stony back rises from the pond, shedding rock and moss and other debris into the water with plops. The figure rises…and rises…and rises, until he towers high above Cyrus, his legs the size of tree trunks, his hands like massive shields. His eyes blaze blue as the flowers on the shore. Long tangles of hair spill across his shoulders like weeds, and from his forehead sprouts a pair of pronged horns, white as bone and as big as the branches of the world tree.

The figure reaches behind him and yanks out the white arrow.

“Little demon…why have I woken? ”

A chill breaks out over Cyrus’s skin. “Kalad?”

“That is I.”

A massive hand comes down, and suddenly Cyrus is airborne.

“Hey!” he cries.

The shepherd god sets him down on the shore. Waves lap at the shoreline, disturbing the flowers.

“Who are you?”

Cyrus straightens, summoning his courage. “I’m Mezor’s mate. Cyrus.”

Kalad looms. His face is reminiscent of Mezor—craggy and stern, but handsome. The difference is that his nose is the length of Cyrus’s hand from wrist to claw-tip, and his teeth are the size of Ekko’s claws. And when he speaks, his mouth doesn’t move—the words come to Cyrus inside his mind.

“What does that mean?”

“Why did you wake in the first place if you don’t know?” Cyrus huffs.

“I sensed your anger. Your need. Your…despair.”

“Did you never sense those things from Mezor?” he demands. “He visited you. He mourned the loss of his home and his family, and all of you turned your backs on him.”

“Mezor was never angry like you. Our gentle Hunter.” Kalad’s voice is sad. “He called to me, but I could not return from the dark. Now…I feel stronger.”

He straightens to his full enormous height, looking out over the forest. From the world tree, Ekko takes flight suddenly.

“That’s because of Mezor. He made a deal with the King, and the King gave him these seeds to plant.” Cyrus points at the world tree. “Thanks to him, they’re healing the realm.”

Kalad swings his head. “Ah. A tree from Yden. Our brother did this?”

Cyrus nods. “But it’s not done yet. It won’t be done until he sacrifices himself.”

“Sacrifice?” A flicker of uncertainty enters Kalad’s voice.

Cyrus picks up his clothes and yanks them on over his wet skin. “Yes! Sacrifice. The world trees siphon away the corruption, but the realm won’t be fully cleansed until the King uses all of Mezor’s power to do—whatever he plans to do.”

Kalad sways gently from side to side, creating a breeze that stirs the leaves. He hums. “The Ydentrees are powerful enough to heal the realm on their own. Slowly, but it will happen.”

Cyrus’s heart clenches.

“Well, that’s not what Mezor believes! The King is going to steal his power—his soul . He thinks it’s necessary. He’s willing to give up everything for the realm. For you.”

“Everything? Even his soul?” Kalad leans down, his unsettling blue eyes boring into Cyrus.

“Even me,” Cyrus manages through the sudden tightness in his throat.

“Hmm.” Kalad’s brow furrows. “You love him.”

“Will you help me or not?” Cyrus bursts out. He doesn’t dare name the thing in his heart—not while Mezor is still in the King’s grip.

“I will help you, little demon. He is my brother, after all. You seem to care for him very much, just as I do.” Kalad reaches out. “Take me to him.”

Cyrus grabs Kalad’s thumb and climbs into his palm. He whistles loudly and Ekko gives an answering cry above.

“Ekko will lead us there,” he says to the giant god.

A rumble of amusement thunders through the glade. “A rok. Very clever.”

Kalad straightens, lifting Cyrus high above the ground. With great strides he walks out of the pond, but strangely he leaves no footprints on the shore or in the delicate meadow grass. The forest parts around them as Kalad enters. Trees bend their necks to clear the way for him. Kalad seems not to notice, his gaze fixed on the horizon ahead.

From here, the mountain is a distant spire haloed by Earth’s sky.

The steady stride and the whisper of wind through the treetops soon lulls Cyrus into a half-sleep. As he wavers between sleeping and waking, the wind turns to words.

“I mourned the realm when it fell to corruption…I turned away from everything.” Kalad is speaking into his mind, barely louder than Cyrus’s own thoughts. His words are full of sorrow and wonder, mixed with emotions Cyrus can’t untangle. “Time passed, but I knew little of the realm’s sorrows. Until I felt the prick of the world tree’s thorny roots. Then I saw your light through my slumber, curious and full of life. I’ve always liked human souls. I warned you away from it.”

“Why did you speak to me?” Cyrus mumbles, eyes still closed. “Why not Mezor?”

“I was ashamed,” Kalad whispers. “I saw the pain in his heart. But I saw hope, too—and a golden flower blooming.”

“The bond,” Cyrus realizes.

“Yes, a twin flower blooms in your soul. You are bonded.”

Another thought nibbles at him. “What would happen to Mezor if he left this place?”

Kalad is quiet for a long moment. He blows out a breath that stirs the trees, a deep sigh. “Long ago, we traveled freely between realms. My brothers sometimes took to their feet and wandered across Earth and Yden, curious to see new lands and meet new people. But never Mezor. Since the day of his creation, this has been his home.”

Cyrus curls his arms around his ribs. “I feel safest with him. If he stayed, I would stay by his side.”

“If you left, he would leave with you. I know him. Home is a feeling your soul knows—not a place.”

A feeling. He reaches for the bond, soaking in its faint warmth. Through it, he still hears Mezor’s distant heartbeat.